From an undated songsheet at The Library of Congress American Memory Collection :

TIM FINIGAN'S WAKE

AIR: THE FRENCH MUSICIAN

Tim Finigan lived in Walker street,
A gentleman Irishman--mighty odd--
He'd a beautiful brogue, so rich and sweet,
And to rise in the world he carried the hod;
But you see he'd a sort of a tipling way:
With a love for the liquor poor Tim was born,
And to help him through his work each day,
He'd a drop of the creatur' every morn'.

CHORUS: Whack, hurah, blood and 'ounds, ye sowl ye
Welt the flure, ye're trotters shake,
Isn't it the truth I've tould ye,
Lots of fun at Finigan's wake.

One morning Tim was rather full,
His head felt heavy, which made him shake,
He fell from the ladder and broke his skull;
So they carried him home his corpse to wake:
They rolled him up in a nice clean sheet,
And laid him out upon the bed,
With fourteen candles round his feet,
And a couple of dozen around his head.

His friends assembled at his wake,
Missus Finigan called out for the lunch:
First they laid in tay and cake,
Then pipes and tobabky and whiskey punch.
Miss Biddy O'Brien began to cry:
Such a purty corps did ever you see:
Arrah! Tim avourneen, an' why did ye die?
-- Och, none of your gab, sez Judy Magee.

Then Peggy O'Connor took up the job,
-- Arrah, Biddy, says she, ye're wrong I'm shure.
But Judy then gave her a belt on the gob.
I left her sprawling on the flure.
Each side in the war did soon engage:
'Twas woman to woman and man to man;
Shillelah law was all the rage,
An' a bloody ruction soon began.

Mickey Mulvaney raised his head,
When a gallon of whiskey flew at him
It missed him--and hopping on the bed,
The liquor scattered over Tim!
Bedad! he revives! see how he raises!
An' Timothy jumping from the bed,
Cries, while he lathered around like blazus:
--Bad luck till yer souls d'ye think I'm dead!

H. DE MARSAN, Successor to J. ANDREWS, Publisher, dealer in
songs and Toy-Books, Paper Dolls &c., 38 Chatham Street, N. Y